


Baretasun

by toxicbolts



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Jokes, Cute, Dirty Jokes, Emotional Sex, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Fluff without Plot, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no beta because i don't have a beta reader and im stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 08:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14712704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxicbolts/pseuds/toxicbolts
Summary: “Don’t tell me you are nervous…” Guzma teases, his voice shaking a little, and Cyrus feels the corners of his lips twitching slightly.They have talked about this. At length. About how hard it is for both of them, to let their guard down, to let others touch them and enjoy it, to even allow themselves to enjoy things, even more if it’s their own bodies. They both want to do it, but, Arceus be damned, it’s easier said than done.





	Baretasun

**Author's Note:**

> Or: “Guzma, provide me with the, how do you say, the cummies” - Marta aka @gghero

The Shady House is dark inside, as usual, but Cyrus finds that oddly comforting. Damp rooms are strangely silent, even the night owls being asleep by now. Himself, however, is another matter, as sleep is precisely the last thing on his mind at the moment. Not with Guzma smiling nervously while looking at him on the bed.

“Don’t tell me you are nervous…” Guzma teases, his voice shaking a little, and Cyrus feels the corners of his lips twitching slightly.

They have talked about this. At length. About how hard it is for both of them, to let their guard down, to let others touch them and enjoy it, to even allow themselves to enjoy things, even more if it’s their own bodies. They both want to do it, but, Arceus be damned, it’s easier said than done.

“You are.” Cyrus whispers, and it would sound like a cold sentence coming from him, but Guzma knows better.

“You’re damn fucking right. My knees are shaking like a newborn Deerling.”

Cyrus cannot say he does not understand. It’s alien for him, his stomach tingling slightly at the perspective. Guzma gets closer, more clumsily than usual, as if his muscles were indeed too tense. It’s almost adorable.

“You made sure everyone is asleep, did you not?”

“Yeah, yeah. No worries. Nobody’s gonna hear.”

They both sigh, relieved. The only one from the rest of the now disbanded Team Skull that is not a heavy sleeper is Plumeria, and she is probably the only person neither of them care too much about hearing them.

The closeness is making him shudder, as if his body was anticipating what was to come. Guzma’s dark eyes look even darker, looking at him with a fondness that he would never have dreamt of.

“Cy, can I kiss you?”

He nods, not finding the strength to tease him about grammar. Guzma seems to realise, too, because he is particularly careful as he caresses Cyrus’ cheek, getting their lips closer slowly enough that neither of them gets startled.

Their kisses are never too long. Never too messy. Physical contact is tricky for Cyrus, and Guzma is prone to getting a little too excited when they touch. Sometimes, Cyrus wonders if he is not holding the other man back. If his issues are not being a hindrance for him. Nobody wants to deal with a man too broken not to tense when he is touched without permission. 

But then, he remembers.

Guzma flinches when someone gets closer to him suddenly. He cannot stand to get hugged from behind, as if his brain sensed danger automatically when some buttons were pushed, even if unconsciously. If he is broken, Guzma is, too, as much as he is.

He wouldn’t have it any other way. Neither of them would.

“Keep your thoughts here, Cy.” he hears Guzma whispering, and he nods, even if both of them know how prone he is to zoning out. Not the best of qualities when you’re trying to have sex.

“Make me.” he teases, and Guzma grins, softly putting their foreheads together. It’s a gesture that Cyrus finds endearing. Guzma has never explained too much about it, but it feels soft, intimate. Like sharing a part of your warmth with someone.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

Cyrus rolls his eyes. He would almost be glad of getting rid of the tacky shirt that Dawn bought him during their latest vacation to Alola. He truly does care about the girl, considers her a younger sister, but he swears she loves messing with him at any occasion she gets. He is probably not wrong.

“Please.”

His fingers clench and unclench while Guzma unbuttons his shirt, Guzma’s fingers accidentally brushing against his skin. He swallows with anticipation, pursing his lips when the shirt rolls over his shoulders, and Guzma throws it to the ground unceremoniously. He lets it slide. It’s not as if the shirt was expensive, or anything. Dawn just bought it because she thought pink looked good on him. He wonders about that.

Guzma takes out his own jacket, and then his tee. Cyrus cannot understand why he would wear a jacket in such a warm weather, but he guesses Guzma would not understand his fashion choices if they were in Sinnoh, either.

He is handsome, Cyrus realizes. Not the breathtaking kind, but the kind of man that makes your heart ache with wonder. He has scars, here and there, bruises that are healing, and vicious looking marks on his shoulders, that seem to continue behind his back. He feels tempted to ask, but does not want to step on his boundaries. Guzma answers before he has the opportunity of averting his eyes.

“Dad. Had a thing for hitting me with his golf clubs.”

Of course he knew about Guzma’s abuse, but he did not know what his father used to do to him, exactly. He feels rage pooling inside of him, and he speaks without thinking.

“My own late father did not... hit me. He had other methods to subdue my will. Don’t speak lightly of your own pain.”

He regrets speaking up almost immediately, but Guzma does not seem to be angry at him for stepping on his boundaries. He almost seems… content, but emotional at the same time.

“Cy, you… you don’t have to compare yourself to me. Both of our fathers sucked. But you didn’t get to hit him back.”

He did not. His father had died a peaceful death, surrounded by people who loved him and said how good of a father and a husband he was. He remembers feeling sick in the stomach, throat dry, guilt pooling inside of his chest because he knew better, because he had actually felt relief when he had been told the news. His father dying was a chain less weighing him down.

“I am hitting him back now. Daring to try to achieve happiness, and not on his terms.” he admits, eyes averted, trying not to look at Guzma’s face. It’s true, and not just because of their relationship. His father wanted him conflicted, in pain, getting in a path that would end up hurting him sooner or later. With Dawn’s help, he was getting further and further from that path. And now, he had Guzma, too, who understood better than anyone what meant living under the shadow of an abusive household.

“For the Tapu’s sake, Cy…” Guzma’s voice is shaking, and Cyrus finally looks up. Guzma is smiling like a fool, his eyes slightly wet, his lips trembling while he tries to keep his cool. “I want to make you the happiest man alive. I will, in fact. You hear me?”

“You are on the right track.”

Guzma rolls his eyes, but his face is getting red.

“Fuck, you can be pretty convincing when you put your mind into it.”

“I used to write my own speeches, so, I sure hope so.”

Guzma nods, his eyes still wandering around the room, like trying not to look at him, his cheeks surely warm, his lower lip being bitten in irregular motions. Cyrus realises, that Guzma has something in mind that he is too embarrassed to tell him. Strange, as Guzma tends to be direct about what he feels, or wants.

“Speak your mind, Guzma.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

This time, it’s Cyrus who rolls his eyes, and sighs. And Guzma raises his hands, accepting his defeat even before there is a proper battle. Whatever it is, he is dying to say it, deep down.

“It’s hot, okay? You’re hot. The way you talk and… put stuff into words. It’s like fucking magic.”

Oh. This time, Cyrus is the one who is definitely blushing. As eloquent as Guzma considers him to be, he cannot even utter a word. Guzma is palming his own face, embarrassed, and he drums his fingers against his own leg, overwhelmed. He realises, he likes being praised, because his abdomen is getting tingly. He brushes away the thought about how utterly ironic that is, getting aroused when he’s being praised. He wonders if Guzma shares that likeness with him, too.

“You… you are… desirable, too.” He manages to say, and Guzma perks up almost instantly, like a Lillipup being told how much of a good boy he is. He knew it.

“You mean it?” the question comes out a little raspy, but neither of them seems to mind.

“Yes… the way you express your own feelings, and gently make mine reveal naturally... it’s charming.”

Guzma grunts, and for a moment, Cyrus gets worried, but, far from being annoyed, it’s a grunt of frustration, Guzma’s eyes looking at him with desire so visible it’s making his knees shake. He realises that he probably has a similar expression, and exhales slowly.

“Take off the rest of my clothes, please.” Cyrus asks, not trusting his own sweaty, shaking hands to do the task. Not that Guzma is in a better state, but he finds his fumbling kind of endearing.

Cyrus tries not to think too much about Guzma’s hands unbuttoning his pants, and taking them off, along with everything else. He helps him with his own sweatpants and underwear, and he hears him giggle, out of nervousness. It’s cute, Cyrus thinks. He is really getting better at being honest with himself, he realises. Years ago, he would have never dared to feel this soft about anyone.

“Arceus fuck, I’m hard.”

Cyrus loses his train of thoughts. He tries to remain calm, and his eyes decide to verify Guzma’s words. Not the best idea he has ever had.

“You are, indeed.” he mutters, not really sure about what he should be saying in a situation like that.

“Don’t you dare be smug about it. You’re hard, too.”

Cyrus has always paid little mind to his own body, always more focused on his objectives, his ideals. He realises he has probably been neglectful towards himself, because of the way his half-erect penis seems to be reacting to the whole ordeal.

“And what are you going to do about it?” he taunts Guzma, trying his best to keep his voice steady. It works.

And of course, it is effective. Guzma moans softly, clenching his teeth. Then, he breathes down once, twice, three times, until he calms down a little.

“Don’t be a dick, Cy. We are both too nervous to push each other’s buttons. I appreciate the effort to make me even hornier, though.”

Something Cyrus loves about Guzma, is that he is far from dumb. Not as book smart as him, but definitely having much more common sense than Cyrus does. He realises that, indeed, he was trying to arouse him even more, even if unconsciously. To say he is ashamed would be an understatement.

“Hey, it’s okay. I like it. I like you, and how much of a little shit you are sometimes.”

He knows Guzma is teasing, and he cannot help but let out a little smile.

“Thank you, I guess”

Cyrus realizes, after an embarrassing long while that they are naked. Completely naked. And that it does not feel uncomfortable. He knows Guzma, like most Alolans, does not have as many taboos about nudity as himself, a Sinnohite. It may be because of the cold, or because of the culture, so intimately linked to Arceus. Thinking about Arceus makes his head hurt.

“Come here, I wanna kiss you.”

Cyrus complies, kneeling in front of a very pleased Guzma. He feels two big, warm hands on his cheeks, and he is being kissed, sweetly. He fights the thought of not deserving something and someone this wholesome, and he kisses back, as clumsily as Guzma himself.

“Damn, you’re so…” Guzma complains against his lips, but Cyrus knows they are empty words, merely a product of Guzma’s sexual frustration. 

He glances at him, icy eyes against Guzma’s own, dark ones.

“May I touch you?” he asks, and mentally scolds himself, as it’s obvious he doesn’t know even where to start.

“Yes, please.” Guzma answers, his voice faltering, softly taking his hand, guiding it to his chest, and not letting it go. His perceptiveness is something Cyrus admires, different to his own intuition and careful planning. Guzma does the right thing without having to think too much about it, spontaneous as he is.

It drives him crazy.

It feels good, to be in control. Guzma is way bigger, way stronger physically speaking, and there he is, shaking slightly whenever Cyrus’s hand moves a little too close to sensitive spots. He is easy to read. And Cyrus has always been good at exploiting other people’s weaknesses. 

He freezes at the thought, utterly ashamed. Old habits die hard. He knows where they come from, manipulation made him feel safe, and it became a habit when he was way too young to have felt unsafe. Still, he is trying not to be that person anymore, has tried hard. Trauma does not mean he has a free card to hurt others. So he stops the train of thought, and concentrates on the matter at hand. Even if giving and receiving pleasure is too alien to him not to feel a little confused about it.

“What’s wrong? Wanna stop?” comes Guzma’s voice, as worried as aroused.

“No, I just feel… confused about what I am supposed to do, and feel.”

He almost can feel Guzma rolling his eyes.

“Man, you’re not “supposed” to do anything. Look, I can start myself, if that helps.”

“I thought you were as inexperienced as I am about this subject.”

Guzma blushes furiously, suddenly aware that he is, in fact, as inexperienced and clumsy as Cyrus is.

“I am! But I can go with the flow. Which you are terrible at.”

Cyrus almost laughs.

“Fair enough. Point taken.”

Guzma asks before kissing him. He always does. They both do, even if Cyrus’ personality and cultural upbringing are not exactly prone to make physical contact easier. He grants him permission, and Guzma’s lips feel rewarding, and welcoming. Like coming home after a hard day. A particularly long one, that is.

“You liked neck kisses. Wanna try that?”

“Yes.”

Neck kisses are like a sensorial roller coaster, his skin vibrating just at the thought. They feel great, Guzma’s lips and tongue near vital points, but that does not scare him anymore. Neither of them bites, ever, and they intend to keep it that way, at least for now.

Guzma’s breath against his skin feels like a treat, and he keeps still. Guzma cups his face, his thumb caressing one of his cheeks, as he starts kissing the sensitive skin, slowly. He can feel Guzma’s nervousness. His doubt. He sighs, and caresses Guzma’s nape, his undercut feeling nice to the touch. It’s something he has always liked, the touch of recently shaved hair. Guzma seems to get the hint, and gently sucks on his skin. Cyrus’ breath is irregular, and that makes him feel nervous, but seeing that Guzma is also trying to steady his own breathing makes it less bad.

“Breathe…” he reminds him, and Guzma hums, hands quietly resting on Cyrus’ shoulders for a moment, then on his sides, and lower. They are warm against Cyrus’ cold skin, and he leans in instinctively, wanting more. He freezes for a second, realising that he is lowering his guard, maybe too much, way more than the old him would be able to accept.

“It’s okay…” Guzma murmurs against his skin, stopping for a moment, until Cyrus collects himself. “You can trust me. But if you want to stop, just say the word.”

Cyrus nods, and asks him to go on. Guzma complies, one of his hands tentatively pressing against Cyrus’ stomach, and slowly getting lower. He exhales, and asks for a kiss with a hand gesture. He had no idea kissing Guzma while being so deprived of oxygen would be so great. Maybe that’s the reason, he jokes internally, the lack of oxygen.

“Feeling ready for me to touch you with my hand?”

“Yes. Just do it slowly.”

Guzma laughs, and Cyrus raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry about it, Cy. I’m a pro at masturbating. It will be okay.”

Cyrus almost chokes on his own saliva. He lets out a short laugh, and Guzma smiles, his mood lighting up like a Poochyena who was just told he is a good boy.

“Man… I love it when you laugh.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do it more often.”

Guzma’s smile gets a little sad, and Cyrus would punch himself if he did not have a sense of decorum.

“Nah, Cy, don’t worry about it. I know how hard it is for you. That’s why I have every time I have made you smile or laugh close to my heart.”

Guzma is going to kill him one day. He loves him, he realises. He loves the utter fool so much it hurts. Even if he doesn’t know how to verbalize it, afraid that the feeling will we cursed once he expresses it out loud. He takes Guzma’s face between his hands, and kisses him, soft and sweet. He then guides Guzma’s hand to his own erection, in a silent request. Guzma’s dark eyes shine like stars.

The start is always weird, but another person doing it is even weirder. He does not masturbate often, his hedonistic desires always seen as weaknesses. No indulgences, no pleasure. That’s the kind of life he lived. Life was a penance, and suffering made it predictable and easier to control. He was going to get rid of suffering one day, anyways. His pain was just necessary for the greater good. Even if, sometimes, it ate him alive.

Now, he is slowly learning not to hate himself so much he does not let himself enjoy some trivial and material things.

His breath falters, and he almost moans, not used to physical pleasure. Guzma’s hand is not making too much pressure, maybe knowing he won’t last much anyways, and wanting to make the moment a little longer. He blushes at the thought, and he swears it makes him feel even closer to his orgasm.

“Are you okay? Want me to stop?”

“It’s fine. Go on.”

Guzma looks at him with dreamy eyes, so in love it makes his stomach burn. And when Guzma opens his mouth, he swears he is going to die, yet again.

“I want to suck you off, Cy. Can I?”

His brain freezes. The perspective of the intimate gesture, maybe even more pleasurable than Guzma’s hand, makes his knees weak. He sees that Guzma is going to apologize for bringing the issue up, and drop it. But he lets out a sharp “yes”, eager and trusting.

“But I have to remind you, Guzma. I do not think I will be able to return the favor. I still don’t feel confident enough.”

“Nah, man, don’t worry. You said you could use your hand, right? That’s more than okay. And if you cannot do that either, it’s no problem! I have my own hands.”

“Guzma, if it’s possible, I’d like to stop thinking about you masturbating.”

Guzma snorts.

“Too sexy for you?”

Cyrus does not bother with an answer.

If handjobs are weird, blowjobs are promisingly even weirder. He obviously lacks any kind of experience about the latter, as it is not something anyone can experience by themselves. It requires the trust and intimacy of another person. He gulps at the thought, but as Guzma kisses his abdomen, his hands gently grabbing Cyrus’ thighs, he realises it’s probably way less scary than it seems.

“All okay up there?” Guzma asks, and Cyrus tries not to look down when he nods. “Just tell me to stop whenever, alright?”

“Don’t concern yourself too much.”

“Awww, that’s sweet of you. But I want to.”

Cyrus would never define himself as “sweet”, but Guzma does have a very singular conception of people.

Warm breath caresses his erection, and he tenses, but Guzma’s hands are shaking a little too, so his nerves, ironically, end up calming Cyrus down. At least enough, for the moment. Then, it’s Guzma’s lips, chapped and tender, touching his length slowly enough for him to catch his breath. He can hear Guzma’s own breath, excited and nervous.

“Fuck the Tapus, I love your smell.”

Cyrus can feel his soul leaving his body.

“I will end your life with my own hands.”

“No need to be shy…”

Cyrus grunts, his face probably redder than a Slugma.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Yeah that’s what those old kahuna said, too. Now concentrate on me and what you are feeling, will you?”

“I’ll try my best.”

He can almost feel Guzma smiling against his skin.

“Great. But, hey. This would be even greater if you looked at me while I suck you off.”

Cyrus knows that. The mere thought is exciting, and makes him feel even harder. Something that Guzma has probably realised. But it’s scary, he is scared of that pleasure, and ashamed of what he may see.

“Hey, no need to pressure yourself. It was only a suggestion. I get it.”

“I… I’ll try.”

And when he looks down, the image is enough to make him grab one of Guzma’s hands, still on his thighs. Guzma grins, a shit eating grin that cannot hide the sweetness on his features. Their fingers are intertwined now, and Cyrus feels somehow safer.

Guzma is looking at him right in the eye when he keeps going, even if he seems to nervously avert his gaze for a couple of seconds when he finally decides to lick him. Cyrus lets out a breath he did not know he was holding.

“You… you are indulging me too much.”

“Nah. You deserve it. Does it feel great?”

“Yes…”

Guzma’s mood seems to dramatically lift with the praise, even his eyes seeming brighter. Cyrus’ lips corners turn a little upwards, but Guzma does not seem to notice.

“I’ll show you great…”

Guzma’s free hand fondles his testicles and starts licking him immediately after. This time, Cyrus does definitely moan. He curses under his breath, but Guzma looks like a kid that has gotten the birthday present he wanted.

“Can you do that again? It was awesome.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that…” Cyrus answers, half protesting, half teasing.

“Oh, so it was that great.”

“Arceus be damned, shut up.”

And he does shut up, his mouth too occupied with giving him pleasure. Licking becomes sucking carefully, taking only the tip in his mouth, and using his hand to slowly masturbate him. The hand Cyrus is holding is getting wet with sweat, but neither of them seem to care. 

Cyrus is not gonna last, both of them know that. It’s only natural. So he warns Guzma, only a prick wouldn’t, and Cyrus has been trying very hard lately not to be one.

“Guzma, I…”

“Yeah, don’t worry. Let’s get you finished.”

He is indeed worried. About the intimacy of a person watching him come undone, vulnerable, and shaking like a leaf against the wind. About many things that would seem rationally foolish, but he cannot help it.

“Hey, can I kiss you?” Guzma asks, sitting up when he nods, his dry lips on his own.

So sweet and sentimental it’s making his heart melt.

“Don’t be scared, okay? Nothing to be scared about” Guzma says, trying to reassure him, and Cyrus thinks that, definitely, Guzma has the ability to read minds.

“Touch me…” Cyrus asks in a low voice, desperate. Guzma doesn’t take long to please him.

He doesn’t care anymore if he is moaning, knowing he is not being loud at all, just enough for Guzma to listen while he pecks him on the lips, on his face, like Cyrus is the cutest being in the world.

He feels close, desperate for a release, and as Guzma cups his face, his eyes on him, he cannot do much more than look back at him with feverish eyes.

“I love you so fucking much.”

And he is done. Abruptly. Guzma is still looking at him, with an amazed expression. Oh, no.

“Holy shit…”

“No…” Cyrus answers weakly, still trying to catch his breath.

“You… you fucking came because I said I loved you.”

“Shut up…”

“Babe that’s cute…”

Cyrus is definitely not in the mood to deal with Guzma’s mushy antics. As much as he loves him back, acknowledging what the feeling does to his mind and body, and verbalising the obvious reciprocity are way too much for him in such a delicate moment. He rubs down his temples, still breathing heavily. He wonders when and if he will be able to breathe normally. Guzma is grinning as if he had won the Pokelottery, and it’s so embarrassing Cyrus suppresses the urge of leaving this physical realm and going back to the Distortion World.

“Hey, you know.” Guzma starts, while cleaning his hands with a towel, his voice a little doubtful, and that does catch Cyrus’ attention.

“No, I don’t. Tell me.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. I meant...” Yes, he is definitely being evasive about the subject. Is he really being shy after giving him a goddamn blowjob? Sometimes, Cyrus doesn’t understand. Guzma makes no sense, not to his (very carefully trained) rational mind. Guzma thinks more with his guts, than with his brain. Even if he is sometimes the voice of reason in Cyrus’ grandiloquent madness.

“Speak up, Guzma.”

“Right. Sorry. It’s just that… I’m hard as balls.”

Oh. He’s blushing. Both of them are, in fact. So, that was the issue. Guzma is such a sweet man. Better than what he deserves, really.

“I’m sorry for disregarding your physical state like this…” and he is. He feels selfish, and it’s not a feeling he likes or intends to keep.

“Nah, man, I was the one distracting you and teasing you, I don’t blame you.”

Cyrus swallows, hard. He wants to do it. He wants to touch him, badly. It’s scary to think about, and his hands are probably shaking, because Guzma takes them both between his, reassuring and calming.

“Hey, Cy, don’t worry. I can do it myself if it’s too much for you. Don’t feel forced to do anything-”

“I don’t want to be abrupt about it. You deserve to be pampered, Guzma.”

Guzma looks at him, perplexed, and blushing even more. He is going to ask what’s wrong, but Guzma speaks one second earlier than him.

“I fucking love you.”

It’s as if fire was connecting them, and not air. Way more beautiful than the coldness they are both used to.

“What?”

“You heard me. Now, if you want to do it, come here. I’ll help you.”

Cyrus does as he is asked, not used to obeying, not anymore, but still wanting the best for Guzma. And if that means his pride being swallowed, so be it.

They are face to face, close, but Guzma makes him a gesture so he gets even closer. Cyrus obeys, and they are basically breathing the same air when Guzma looks down, to Cyrus lips, and then back to his eyes.

“Kissing me while you touch me is okay. More than okay.”

It’s a suggestion, more than an advice. They both know that.

“Should I touch you directly?”

“Whatever you do, it’s okay. If I don’t like it, I’ll tell you. No worries.”

Guzma is smiling nervously, and Cyrus decides to try. Kissing is good, Guzma reacts positively to the touch, so eager he cannot sit still. His dark eyes close slowly, a mixture of love and lust. Cyrus wonders if that was the expression he had some minutes ago, and the thought doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

Guzma’s shoulders are warm, and he shakes in pleasure as Cyrus delicately touches his scars, knowing it’s completely okay to do so. Guzma smiles, sheepishly, and Cyrus decides to exploit what he knows Guzma loves above it all.

“You are handsome, Guzma…” he does think that, but Guzma’s reaction gives him the strength to say it out loud. Guzma is giggling, breathing hard, and Cyrus kisses him again.

“You’re such a tease, you know…” Guzma murmurs, knowing what Cyrus is doing, and happily enabling him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You ass…”

But Guzma is laughing, and takes one of Cyrus’ hands and kisses it softly, guiding the other through his chest, and lower. He is such a great man, that he is thinking about Cyrus’ own doubts in a time like this. The realisation weights heavy and pleasant in his chest.

“Eager, aren’t we?”

“You fucking bet.”

Cyrus slowly caresses the skin of Guzma’s belly. The right amount of chub, strong muscles beneath it, and a generous amount of silky body hair. He loves it, and makes the effort to express it out loud, to Guzma’s delight.

And when he finally takes him in his hand, Guzma shudders and bites his lip, slightly relieved, but his impatience visibly growing.

“It’s fine. Go on.” he murmurs, loud enough for Cyrus to listen.

And he does as asked, stroking slowly, trying to mimic how Guzma had done it to him, and how he did it to himself. He builds a steady rhythm, and Guzma is moaning, loud. Cyrus half smiles, their foreheads touching, their eyes ending up getting locked.

“You like what you see?” Guzma taunts him, not so subtly looking for a confirmation, and praise.

“Believe me, I do.”

And Guzma is moaning even louder, his teeth clenched in a futile effort to control himself. It has never been his forte, and Cyrus knows how much he enjoys it, how much he is enjoying this, being the center of his attention, getting the love he has always craved. Not that Cyrus doesn’t understand the feeling.

“I like you a lot, Guzma…”

Guzma himself is half laughing, half sighing, trying to catch his breath, Cyrus’ words being music to his ears. Cyrus’ hand goes faster, and his thumb deliberately caresses the tip of his member, making Guzma’s whole body shake.

“Playing dirty… aren’t we?” he asks, with a hint of irony, since Guzma loves dirty, had been playing dirty since he left his parents’ house.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cyrus answers, apparently immaculate, lawful, and clearly not so different.

“Sure you don’t…”

Cyrus repeats the motion, and Guzma groans, grabbing Cyrus’ wrist with frustration, just to be able to hold onto anything. He is close, and Cyrus knows it. He is desperate, his body hot and sweaty. Cyrus wonders how he is feeling, what he is thinking.

“I’m… I’m going to come if you do that.”

Cyrus snorts a little.

“Isn’t that the goal?”

Guzma laughs, tired. He is so attractive it hurts to even look at him.

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

Cyrus strokes him again. Harder, and faster. Guzma asks him for a kiss, breathless, and he obligues, Guzma’s incoherent babbling against his lips, about how much he loves him about how cute Cyrus is, about how hard his dick is; until he feels his muscles tensing, and then spasming. His hand is wet, and dirty, but he doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would.

“You were splendid, Guzma.”

“Aw… shut… shut up…”

Cyrus cleans his hands with the towel while Guzma tries to breathe, until he gets to calm down, his breathe still heavy, but steadier than before. He is handsome, his dyed, white hair sweaty against his forehead. Cyrus thinks he may be in love, because he would have never thought of someone sweaty as attractive.

They rest a little, side by side, looking at each other, Cyrus deep in thought, Guzma probably having his brain still muddled. It’s probably that, because Cyrus realises he is trying hard not to laugh.

“Cy…”

“Yes?”

“I have a question. A very important one.”

Oh. Cyrus braces himself for it, still not used to emotional talks like this. Whatever Guzma is going to ask, though, he is ready to answer. Even if Guzma’s mischievous smile makes him distrust the question in general.

“Did you know… that in space, a ‘reverse cowgirl’ is the same thing as ‘doggy style’?”

As Guzma tries to hold back his laughter, without success, Cyrus definitely feels his soul and hope abandon him. Guzma is laughing hard enough for it to be contagious, and he struggles not to laugh at his antics. Arceus be damned, he fails miserably.

Cyrus is definitely going to kill him one day.


End file.
